


Top Bunk

by wubz-bubx-redux (Inorganic_soot)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: But very slight - Freeform, First Time, Frottage, Incest, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, References to Period-Typical Homophobia, Teen!Stans, but you knew that, lotion as lube, that are vaguely sexually charged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11576844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inorganic_soot/pseuds/wubz-bubx-redux
Summary: Stan wakes up in the middle of the night, there are noises coming from above him.Alternately, Ford jerks it loudly on their bed,  it gets Stan hot under the collar.





	Top Bunk

**Author's Note:**

> Well buddies, I wrote this when I should have been doing more important shit. But enjoy! (also this unedited, so sorry for any mistakes)

_Stan is burning. It's an unnatural heat, not around him but in him, omnipresent and choking. Like his heart is melting iron in a furnace, hewn anew, like he is coal vined in glowing red tendrils. He's in a lightless corridor and he's aflame._

_"Stan."_

_His name, it's smooth and familiar, a worn away pebble on the bank of a cool river. He's compelled forward, he has to find the voice, soak himself in it._

_Stan walks a mile, walks ten. He doesn't get any closer. He is getting more and more desperate. He needs to get there faster. Someone is calling to him._

_He's steaming, white clouds curling and twisting around him, trailing behind him as he moves. He's running now, or maybe he always was. He's running so fast that he's floating and he's air; he can't feel himself. He can't go faster._

_Stanford's voice, dark and full, calls to him, just out of reach. "Stan — Stan, please."_

 

* * *

 

 

Soft creaks, a choked gasp.

Stan's eyes open, pupils dilating to compensate for the darkness shrouding his bedroom. His thoughts are molasses slow and sleep-fogged. His dream slips smoothly from his consciousness, leaving with him a lingering anxiety, oil-slick in his lungs.

He's sweating:  there's dampness on his brow, on his back and beneath his arms. A drop of perspiration gathers at the corner of his temple and trails its way down into the divot behind his ear, pooling there. He takes a deep breath, the night air does not soothe him.

Another harsh inhalation.

He stares dully upwards, slowly uncurling his fingers from the fists he must have formed while sleeping. The sounds are coming from above him. His ears prick —

Ford?

The fear he feels grows heavy and suffocating, charcoal lungs burning, breaking and cracking in his chest. He feels the timid pull of a half-forgotten memory, sees thick billows of vapour around him that vanish when he blinks. Is his brother okay? Is he safe? Is he having a nightmare —?

A soft, exultant moan. The slick sound of viscous liquid rubbed into skin.

The sound is unmistakable. Is that — it can't be.

 _Fuck._ Ford is jerking off above him. Stan is sure of it, though he's not quite sure what that makes him feel. Or at least he doesn't want to think about it.

Images, unbidden, burst forth from the night and into his mind in vivid, garish technicolour. Ford likely has his feet planted flat on the mattress, legs bent, knees tipping apart so that his thighs slope noticeably inwards. His back would be curled up, spine tensed and aching, just so that he can get a better grip on his dick. Stan knows his hips are moving too, can feel and hear the rhythmic scratch of it through the wood of their bunk bed. Ford is probably fucking his tightly-closed, six-fingered fist.

Stan feels light headed.

He tries pushing these thoughts away but it is like pressing his palms against a leak in a dam wall, water gushes out anyway. And he can – he can smell Ford. Smell the sweat on him, the musk of his pre-come beading at the slit of his dick. And he knows that he's right because he recognises it from time he's spent alone in the dark or in the bathroom after everyone has gone asleep or in the shower with water sluicing down his back and his hand braced against the white-tiled wall.

He's also fairly certain that Ford is using his hand lotion. The one he keeps in his bedside drawer, ostensibly because his elbows and knees are dry, and they crack and bleed during winter, but it isn't often used to remedy that. It's a light smell, sweet and vaguely fruity; he's instantly hard.

He remembers how it felt on his skin, the coldness of it, the sense-memory of the slipperiness of his palm trailing down his stomach, the smooth glide of his hand around his dick. There's something intimate about this knowledge. He knows exactly what Ford is doing, knows exactly what he's experiencing because he's done it too.

Stan's heartbeat is roaring in his ears; the moon peaks out from behind the clouds and gentle light spills into the room and illuminates the white of his undershirt. He can see the soft throb of his stomach as blood rushes through his veins. Can feel each pulse in his dick. His abdomen twitches.

He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He's managed to convince himself so far that the love he feels for Ford is only platonic. That it's just hormones that cause the warmth in his chest when he sees his brother's smile to sink and dissolve downwards into his gut where it coalesces into something deeper and rougher.

Ford lets out a high-pitched keen.

Stan hears a dull thump, Ford has thrown his head back and onto the pillow, Stan imagines his face twisted in ecstasy.

The wet sounds grow faster and louder, building up into the final crescendo. A symphony of whisper-quiet whimpers and lustful _ahs._ Ford sounds incapable of thought, of language, of sentience. A string tightened to its breaking point, an instrument begging to be played—

"Stan- _ley._ "

Stan is out of the bed before he's even fully aware he's moving, his bed sheet is caught on his foot and curls around where he is standing, and it’s white like froth on steel grey seas and it pulls him down like a riptide. But he will not be stopped because that was Ford's voice calling his name.

Stan can hear heavy, panting breaths. It takes a moment to realise that it's him. The sweat on his body has dried leaving his skin sticky, and his shirt clings to him.

He's tall enough to see above, on to the top bunk, where his brother is. Ford is looking at him, eyes glazed and unfocused but strangely bright without the glasses blocking them. He looks more shocked than scared. His pyjamas are around his ankles, his pale legs splayed out, he does not hide himself and Stan feels a vague satisfaction that he was right about the position Ford was in.

His cock is soft, stained white at the tip; his shirt is rucked up and Stan has seen his bare torso before but it's never looked so lewd with pale strings of come leading all the way to his chest. It glitters faintly, Stan wants to lick it off.

Ford flushes at the scrutiny, his shame finally returning and he closes his legs tightly. He grabs for the blanket that is bunched together at the corner of his mattress.

"Stan—" he sounds wavering and paper-thin, "It's not what you think."

It sound unconvincing to even Stan's ears.

Stan advances, and grips Ford's wrist. Ford watches him, tugging his hand away and crawling backwards on to the bed. Stan puts his hands on the bed frame, his muscles rippling as he pushes himself up, desperate for something he does not dwell on. His eyes never leave Ford, who shrinks back, afraid, the blanket draped over his lower body. Stan's on his knees on the mattress, facing his brother, his body limned by moonlight. Ford is staring at him, staring at his crotch, where the material stretches obscenely.

Stan bends down, rests his weight on his hands and crawls forward. Ford is at the very edge now, leaning against the wall, stock still and barely breathing. Stan reaches out and grabs his hips, pulling them so that Ford slips down flat on his back, one foot slides out from his pyjama pants. His knees fall open and bracket Stan's waist. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, and perhaps for the first time he doesn't know what's happening, he's not two steps ahead of him. Stan pushes his head down, his eyes never leaving Ford's, and licks a delicate strip from navel to chest, following a line of drying come. Ford quivers beneath him, something like hope flashing through his eyes before it's shuttered down by something scared and cold.

Ford places his hands on Stan shoulders and Stan believes for a moment that maybe his brother wants to pull him closer and kiss him but he's pushed away.

"We can't do this." Ford is still breathless but there's a brittle firmness in his tone, like he’s trying to convince himself.

Stan wants to laugh because, he's had his hang-ups about this too but he's never moaned Ford's name while coming. He has always bitten his lips or pressed his face into his pillow or cleared his mind. Right now, it's Ford who's the wanton one, the one with little self-control, touching himself on their bed and teasing him. He should be well past shame, but Stan supposes he has always been the braver one or at least the one with all the bravado.

"Ford, shut up."

Ford seems taken aback, endearingly offended before his face changes. His eyes soften in a way Stan's seen before: pity. "Stan," he sounds smooth and coaxing, like he's talking to an obstinate child but there’s just an edge of desperation, "you know we can't, this is illegal."

Like that’s enough to stop either of them.

And Stan's angry because it’s not that Ford doesn't think he understands, it’s that he’s trying to convince his brother not to follow him down the path he’s led him to. _Wherever we go, we go together_. He knows this is a risk, a stupid one, perhaps. But he loves his brother and that should be — that always will be — enough.

"Sixer, I'm not an idiot. I get it. But whatever is happening, it's worth it. I've wanted this for a long time," Stan ducks his head down, embarrassed, before looking directly at Ford, "and I think you have too."

Ford's resolve crumbles, his face becomes lax, more open. He's still hesitant, frightened at the possibilities that now exist between them. Stan leans down and kisses him, still positioned between Ford’s legs. It is sweet and slow, a shy exploration of each other. He’s still hard but it’s not as urgent. It feels like dipping into a dream, unearthly and hazy, the pliant edges of their lips catching and dragging against each other. Stan falls forward, shifting his weight off his hands and knees until he is lying on top of Ford, gasping as his dick presses against the warm skin of Ford’s belly.

Ford pulls back too, his breath hot against Stan’s lips, and observes the neediness painted across every feature of Stan’s face with rapt attention, the kind he usually reserves for difficult physics problems. He cocks his head to the side, curious and almost considering, before thrusting his hips against Stan’s. His eyes fall close and he shudders through a breath, then drops his face into the hollow between Ford’s neck and shoulders, redness blooming from his cheek and from the center of his chest.

“Come on, Stan. I want to see you.” Ford sounds wrecked, Stan can feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest. He tucks his face in deeper.

Ford strokes a hand down Stan’s back and down to his hips. He repeats the motion, going farther and farther down with each caress until his hand is groping Stan’s ass. Stan thrusts forward impulsively and Ford smiles, both hands now gripping Stan’s hips, urging Stan on. His dick is rubbing against the dip next to Ford’s pelvic bone, chafing against the cotton of his pants. He whimpers.

Ford realises his discomfort, pushes one hand into the mess of blankets and extracts the bottle of hand lotion, it’s still open and he leans back and squeezes it over his abdomen, spreading the thick liquid down to his hips. Stan stares at him, wide-eyed.

“Stan, please, just—” He makes a frustrated noise, like it’s hard to get the words out, “c-come on me. I don’t know if we’ll ever do this again. _Please_.”

The unconstrained want in Ford’s voice breaks him. He’s thrusting now, his pants pushed down just enough to free his dick. And Ford – Ford keeps talking, small encouragements, telling him how good he is, how hot he is, and little, broken pleases.

“That’s it, Lee. You’re so good for me.”

The bed is creaking beneath him and Stan’s sure he’s leaking pre-come all over Ford. This is filthy, he’s sweating again, he’s never done more than kiss a girl and now he’s rutting against his brother.

He’s so close and Ford is thrusting up against him too, hard as well. Moaning those same wonderful moans that woke him up a lifetime ago and they are far too loud.

“Ford, we’ve — _fuck_ — got to be quiet.”

 Ford doesn’t seem to have heard him but he brings his face closer, shifting slightly, and their lips touch again and their cocks brush. _Oh—_

_“Ford.”_

He’s coming, his toes are curling and he’s sure he’s going to die. The world is narrowed to the sensation of Ford’s body against his, the friction of their dicks against each other. He’s never felt this before. He’s drowning in pure ecstasy and he comes up gasping.

Ford looks dazed too, likes he’s just come and Stan realizes with a pang that he wanted to see it, wanted to see Ford come apart the seams because of him.

He flops to the side, feeling overheated and tacky with drying sweat and semen. But Ford surprises him, curling around him from behind and throwing an arm over his waist, pulling him close. They don’t say anything, Stan knows he’ll have to move down to his bed eventually, that they’ll have to talk about this soon, but right now he’s safe, ensconced in Ford’s embrace.

Everything else can wait for tomorrow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on my tumblr www.wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com if you wanna talk stancest. Also this may be a part of series of Mystery Twins Classic catching each other with their pants down.


End file.
